


(im)perfect

by blackrainboes



Category: Black Panther (2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Black Character(s), Black Reader-Insert, Canon Compliant, F/M, Pre-Canon, Reader-Insert, if you want it to be, otherwise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-20
Updated: 2018-02-20
Packaged: 2019-03-21 20:52:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13749051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackrainboes/pseuds/blackrainboes
Summary: There's much more than a question in there, but first and foremost it is a question: "Do you think Wakanda has perfected the bra?"





	(im)perfect

**Author's Note:**

> this idea came to me post watching the movie while trying and failing to fix the straps on my bra and being jealous of the dora milaje's armor, knowing that they're designed for maximum support and comfort. it was supposed to be joking and then it wasn't because thinking of erik gives me mixed emotions that are hard to articulate except maybe in reader insert fic

Despite the very warm, hands-on (and they’re all over, _all over_ ), distraction flexing beneath you, you stare at the clothes scattered on the carpeted floor. But Erik’s hands keep moving and you keep having to catch your breath, so eventually, your deep consideration gives up the ghost, and you ask, “Do you think Wakanda has perfected the bra?”

“What.”

You finally look at him then - unwilling to have risked it before. His thick brow is scrunched in confusion, but his lips are upturned in faint amusement.

You shrug a shoulder, your whole body following the motion against him so he answers with a soft grunt.

“You know -” You pause a fraction, trying to hold in the anger of this train of thought but failure comes just a little too often. “Do you know how difficult it is even to find a decent bra? You end up having to choose between comfort, coverage, and style because of course all three is too much to ask for - I swear to God they do it purposefully so you have to buy more just to have something that might work for any situation.”

“The fashion industry hates women, I know.”

“And then if you can’t afford anything decent - which is like everyone I know, we’re all broke, and everyone I don’t but I can tell when I’m waiting on the bus, and there’s this lady who’s always pulling at her side, trying to fix the underwire. But she can’t buy another, she’s stuck. You’re stuck in pain and wearing a bra until it’s falling apart. I’ve had some bras since I was sixteen.”

He looks at your chest, and then at you, a smile teasing mischief in his face.

In a huff, you say, “They stopped growing then, thank God.”

Erik lifts a brow, still with that same “But titties!” smile on his face.

You insist between grit teeth, “Thank. God.”

“Praise the Lord. Amen.”

You almost reach forward to smack him - he plays too much, which is why your bra is lying broken on the floor - but his hands leave your waist to skirt up your sides. A shiver rakes up your spine. You press back on him with a gasp, his caresses deepening, more pressure, more pleasure. His hands finally cup your breasts, and you’re unable to keep your eyes open; they flutter shut to the gentle way he runs his thumb on the underside of your breast.

You’re halfway (more than, really) to making a really (really) pathetic sound, when he murmurs something, drawing your eyes open. There’s plain lust in his gaze as he follows the motions of his hands, but he has a serious edge in his teasing words.

“Why do you need the perfect bra when you have these perfect hands?”

He grins but it’s flat behind his eyes - and maybe your question was a little too pointed.

 _Perfection_.

A perfect land, where there is only beauty and none of the pain heard in the angry words hurled beneath the window in the dimly lit street circling the apartment complex and the sharper pain in the long silence that follows, a breath bated, hoping to hold until day, until the argument is just an argument and not agonized cries and an ambulance that comes too late or not at all.

 _Wakanda_ \- is it quiet in its peace or is it loud, happiness bursting at the seams of the land they keep hidden away?

Wakanda.

You don’t mean the reminder, to be thoughtless of the thought that weighs on him - _heavy is the crown, heavy is the crown_ \- but still you wondered, and you asked, and he _is_ smiling beneath you, heavily though.

His smile could be light.

With a quick glance to your torn undergarments, you say, “You’re up to two bras now. One more and I’m taking you shopping.” You try to be aggressive, direct, but failure again as you near smile the words, “Your treat.”

He grins, wide and goofy, acting the child and pouting. He knows what he’s doing - his lips so damn kissable, and he has the puppy eyes that your weak ass always gives in to.

“What about another form of payment?”

“Certified check?”

You try not to smile at your own response, but damn, it was good, especially for you, when Erik can make you stumble over your words just by actually listening to them.

Your bar isn’t _that_ low, to be clear. But he gets you with that one.

He shakes his head, scoffing at you with a smile.

You place your hands metaphorically on your hips as you say, “If you think your no chin having ass is getting out of this -”

Your argument is lost to a gasp, a long moan, and an instinctual roll of your hips as he grinds his erection into the apex of your thighs, where you’re still so sensitive, and pinches the nipple he just spent so long sucking on.

“This is a coordinated a-”

You grab his arm, fingers digging crescents into the lean muscle, but he doesn’t let up, rolling your nipple between his finger and thumb, just the way you like it, the way you hate it, the way he has your words breaking to pieces in your mouth.

“Coordinated assault, Erik!”

“It is,” he confirms.

It isn’t really payback, not at all, more a coordinated motion of you gliding your hand down his chest, over his collarbone and the raised bumps of skin, almost on a third line spiraling down to his bicep. It’s a dance really. In the fire in his brown eyes, a predator bares his sharp teeth, and you ready yourself for the kill - he releases your abused nipple to lift you like you’re nothing, like you’re something he’s so desperate for that he can’t wait to sink his teeth into your skin.

He nips along your collarbone with a whispered, “no chin having ass”, with painful bruises sucked into the delicate skin of your neck, soothing licks of his tongue followed by open-mouthed kisses from your collar to your ear. It’s a dance, all the while, your hips circling and grinding to the pulsing of his blood.

The friction is good, it’s too much, the dance can’t last, was never meant to. You’ve been spinning forth and now he’s reeling you back in.

With both hands you grab his face and draw his head up to yours. It’s a moment for a look, for an emotion, for more than lust. And as a cat allows a mouse a moment to feel terror, Erik allows a smile, a promise in the crinkles of his eyes.

“You don’t need perfect, do you?” he asks.

You don’t look away.

“I want it.”

He’s looking at you, but he’s looking far off, too.

“I want it,” you say again.

He looks the cat then, but not one who’s found a mouse, but another cat, just like him.

There’s a fire in you too, try to ignore it often because it’s usually useless, but now you let it spring free, burn its mark into your words.

Erik echoes it with his eyes of fire.

“I want it, too.”

You pull him to you, but he’s already moving in. Your foreheads touch, his nose brushes yours. Erik breathes into you and you capture that breath in a kiss. You love his kiss, love it enough to feel your heart burst at the pressure, at the insistence and resistance. The taste of him is like pure, sweet water, and a thirst that can never be quenched so long as those waters run free.

You don’t mean to hold him so close that he can’t pull away, but your fingers curl around a loc and tug. He draws back, pecks a kiss to your bottom lip, swollen and inviting more - always inviting. He answers a different invitation, releasing you and falling back against the pillows.

Your hands crawl up the jut of his hip, the sparse dark hair leading to the defined planes of his abdomen to meet his. The foil wrapper passes between your fingers.

You both like to watch as you slide the rubber over him, and watch as you rise above and slowly sink down, taking him in slow - the initial burn gives way to a warmth spreading you, spreading you open and you’re so full, and he’s gripping your waist like he wants to guide you. His eyes ask, “Do you know the way?” and you can only answer by starting an easy rhythm along the path you’ve walked before, will walk again, following behind until he takes your hand, threads your fingers with his, clasping your joined hands tightly to his chest before he tugs you forward so you’re right by his side.

Astride him, chest to chest, you can kiss him, but it isn’t easy to move now so he lifts up, plants his feet to the bed so he can thrust into you, hard and deep while you rock against him.

“Erik,” falls from your lips.

He takes his name back with a hard, swift kiss, and the whisper of a name he keeps closer than the way he’s holding you to him. But maybe he wants your name as well, to hold it close to his own as he groans it, reaching between your bodies to draw circles with his thumb on your swollen clit. He brings you with him into that bliss where you see no color, no white lights, just black. You see Erik, and you reach out for him, blinking the orgasmic haze away to see him as he really is.

His brown eyes smolder.

It isn’t perfect. Nothing so messy, so good at ruining the hair you just spent six hours in a salon getting done, and leaving you in desperate need of water, not the sweet kind but the purified tap in the fridge can be so.

Nothing like this can be perfect, but he reaches up and cups your cheek. You smile at him, leaning into the touch and he has a way of stealing your words, he really does, but what is given cannot be stolen and he gave you that name so you say it, quiet but not like a secret hidden away from those deemed unworthy but like the peace of it that you want to share with him.

You take the hand stroking your face and kiss his scarred knuckles. Erik breathes your name as he’s never said it before, and you both look away at the same time. You aren’t ready. You aren’t.

Neither is he.

But perfect - you both want it, so there’s time enough to become ready.

Before your deflected gaze, you can see your bra again, the poor thing still lying broken on the floor.

“You still owe me two bras.”

When you look at him, his expression is schooled into normal Erik, or maybe he doesn’t wear that Erik and the Erik whose name you’ll hold close isn’t the Erik he truly is. For how can he truly have an identity he wasn’t allowed?

It tears you. You know it tears him.

You try to school yourself into other thoughts, but he replies, “I’m off on another tour Thursday so spend the night. We’ll go tomorrow. You can borrow my ‘bra’ until then.”

Thursday.

You offer him a won over smile, knowing full well he’s just going to give you one of his old Jerseys, cut in half specifically for ease of access when he cuddles up beside you tonight. Tomorrow.

And then Thursday.

“Tomorrow works.”

He grins wide and scrambles to get you off him so he can get himself back from fucked out to decent, something you need to do, too. You don’t move though, just stare at his back. The bumps there are more than you can count through hazy eyes that don’t yet understand.

But you want to, because you want perfect after all.

(You want him.)

**Author's Note:**

> hope you enjoyed this, feel free to crit, i haven't written in a different fandom in years so im a little rusty, ik


End file.
